


death is warmer than love

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: love is colder than death au [1]
Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Feelings Realization, Humor, It all began because of a pun, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Vaguely written sex but definitely sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “What sort of assassin would I be if I couldn't dole out a little death?”[A fanfic for izzybusiness' "love is colder than death"]
Relationships: Bartimaeus/Nathaniel (Bartimaeus)
Series: love is colder than death au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638877
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. death is warmer than love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [izzybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/gifts).
  * Inspired by [love is colder than death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141176) by [izzybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness). 

> _Disclaimer:_ Ha ha I don’t even own the AU this is set in.
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ Did I mention yet that I adore “love is colder than death?” Because I do. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ I mean. You saw the rating, right? And the pairing? 
> 
> It is also of import to know that I wrote this before the drop of chapter two (and after covering my ears to offered spoilers), so any inconsistencies between this fanfic-of-a-fanfic and whatever actually happens in the fanfic-proper is my own fault, and I’m happy to accept the blame. :)

\---

_Bartimaeus takes advantage of the temporary loss of his capacity for speech in order to direct him into the house. “Let’s discuss this over dinner. I noticed you didn’t have anything inside your fridge aside from energy drinks, so I took the liberty of going to the market. No need to thank me.”_

_Nathaniel continues to sputter incoherently, but he nonetheless accepts the steaming plate of food that is offered to him. Bartimaeus stands over him until he finishes the entire thing._

\--

death is warmer than love 

\--

There’s only one thing you really need to be in order to make it as an assassin, and that’s good at killing people in exchange for money. No money, and you’re just a murderer. No murder, and you’re probably some manner of bank robber.

Bartimaeus wrote off the idea of being a bank robber fairly early in his life. Despite the temptations of potential glamor and the Mission Impossible thrill that such a profession might have provided, the grainy security cams kept in bank vaults are notoriously bad at capturing even the most debonair thief’s good side. This is not to mention the lackluster banter to which he would have been submitted. 

Everyone knows the financial sphere is a witless place.

Up to this point in his career, Bartimaeus— ever humble and quietly self-reflective— would have said that he had done a pretty bang-up job at being an assassin, given that he has:

a) Turned lots of people into corpses and  
b) Gotten oodles of cash for the pleasure of doing so

It’s a pretty good thing he’s had going, all things considered. Definitely a step above being a bank robber, anyway. Or a barista. 

Which of course has made this most recent turn of events all the more confusing to his associates— and, in truth, to Bartimaeus himself. Not just the not-killing-his-purported-target part; that, at least, Bartimaeus can pin on a healthy self-preservation instinct, courtesy of Kitty. 

It’s this actively-trying-to-keep-Nathaniel-alive business that Bartimaeus finds baffling. 

“You didn’t eat your carrots,” he points out, jabbing at Nathaniel’s dinner plate with a knife. Old habits, etcetera. “That’s prime vitamin A, that is. Good for your eyes. And you’re already well on your way to having the vision of an old man, given that you spend half your life in the shadows reading reports printed in extra tiny font. Speaking of, if you’re so rich, why can’t you afford a few decent light fixtures? Or a candelabra? Even commoners have those. People are going to think you’re a vampire, skulking around at all hours in the dark…” 

Nathaniel, sullenly slouched in his dining chair, regards Bartimaeus from across the table. “You prepared carrots specifically because you know I detest them.”

“Did not.” 

“You intended to kill me via poisoning. You expect me to believe you didn’t bother looking into what foods I do and don’t like?”

“Nat,” Bartimaeus drawls, “there’s a reason we met at Pinn’s. As far as my _intelligence_ was aware, all you do are lines of instant coffee and inject espressos directly into your veins.”

Disgust does battle with offense and loses; Nathaniel’s nose scrunches to have been so grievously insult. “_Instant_ coffee?”

“Or maybe you were heating up beans on a rusty spoon. That’s not the point. The _point_,” Bartimaeus concludes, emphatically spearing the last of Nathaniel’s crinkle cut carrots on the end of his fork, “is that you ought to listen to the advice of your dear mother and eat your vegetables.”

Nathaniel scowls. “I’m adopte— _mpgh!_”

“I know,” Bartimaeus assures, leaning back in smug satisfaction after ending Nathaniel’s protests with the punctuative carrot. “Right-o. We’ll work up to the green peppers, eh? Time for bed, then,” he decrees, standing and calmly dumping their dinner plates in the sink. 

The screech of cutlery against porcelain provides a fairly accurate impression of the sound that Nathaniel’s mind makes at this pronouncement. 

“What?!” Like soggy, chewed confetti, bits of carrot flies through the air, landing on the table in orange clumps. Belatedly, a pink-eared Nathaniel scrambles for a napkin; after covering his mouth, he repeats, “_What?_”

“It’s past ten. So. Bedtime,” Bartimaeus says again, but with more exaggerated articulation, as if speaking to a child. Which, arguably, is exactly the case. “Growing boys need sleep, you know.” 

Nathanial gawks behind his napkin. A waste of an indignant expression, that; Bartimaeus can’t see the majority of it. Oh well. He would have ignored it, regardless. Just as he ignores the displeasure its presence implies. 

“This is ludicrous!” Nathaniel squawks. “I’m not a _boy!_” 

“Oh?” Bartimaeus arches a brow. “I’ll admit, I assumed the make and model of the equipment that you’re packing. My bad. Growing girl, then?” 

“_Hardly!_” The politician’s face is growing blotchy, now. As one would a Renoir, Bartimaeus sidles over to better admire the myriad of colors smeared across Nathaniel’s cheeks, his elbows propped against a seat back and his face cradled between his fists. “What I mean— _obviously_— is that I am twenty-two years of age!” 

“You are at that,” Bartimaeus nods. The gesture is too congenial to come off as anything other than condescending. “And I assume you want to make it to twenty-three, correct?” 

“A few sleepless nights won't kill me,” Nathaniel grumbles, baleful arms crossed over his chest. That Bartimaeus has yet to stop nodding does not go unnoticed. It _does_ go unappreciated. 

_Extraordinary, really,_ the fuming Nathaniel observes, _how much belittlement he can squeeze into the most mundane of gestures._

In testament to this, the world’s most audacious assassin (trademark) leans even more casually against the chair. Why, it’s _excessive_, all this casualness; he acts like he owns the place. Like he _lives_ here. Which he _does_. Much to Nathaniel’s sustained bewilderment. 

_Why_ did he let this bastard stay, again? 

As Nathaniel tries to remember, said bastard unfurls his fingers, splaying them beneath his own chin with the beautiful elegance of a Venus fly trap. 

“Well, Nat, when you’re right, you’re right,” Bartimaeus shrugs. “A few sleepless nights _won’t_ kill you. However,” he cheerily adds, “_I_ might, if you don't get some rest.”

Nathaniel stares. “Are you trying to _intimidate_ me?” 

“Am I?” A show of great deliberation is made, complete with options weighed on muscled shoulders. Eventually, Bartimaeus gives a somber nod. “Hmmm, yes. Yes, I believe I am. But what do you think? Did I sound intimidating?” He waits politely for Nathaniel’s reply. Cuts it off impolitely before it can be offered. “Look, Natty. The fact of the matter is that I can't sleep when you're... you know.” A tan hand spools through the air, spinning— appropriately— nothing out of nothing. “Doing whatever it is you do.”

“‘_Whatever it is I do?_’” 

“Oh, come on. _You_ know,” Bartimaeus says again, as if being more emphatic will help explain his point. It does not. And so, miffed, he expounds, “You know, lurking! Brooding! Plotting so loudly that I can hear evil laughter ringing out of your ears. This assassin needs to stay _fresh,_ Nat, if he’s to be of any use to you—” 

“You’re quite _fresh_ enough, if you ask me.” 

“—and _you_ need your beauty sleep. I mean, good lord. Assuming that you _aren’t_ actually a vampire, have you seen yourself in a mirror, lately? _Oof._” With every tut of Bartimaeus’ tongue, Nathaniel’s sulk grows darker. Figuratively speaking. There really _are_ an ineffective number of light fixtures in the townhouse, but the situation’s not quite _that_ bad. Yet. “C’mon, Natty-boy. A past like yours is bound to come with some baggage, I get that. But you don’t have to store it all under your eyes. Leave a couple bags with the Sandman before you trip over one and break your skinny little neck.”

“…your metaphor got a bit convoluted, at the end.” 

“You only think that because you’re so exhausted,” Bartimaeus counters, blithe. He chooses not to notice the way Nathaniel’s nostrils flare, as if he were smelling the assassin’s bullshit. “There’s a reason that the Japanese have a word for ‘death from overwork.’ It’s a thing, kid. 過労死, they call it. Is that what you want to happen to you? To get done in by paperwork and allow your enemies to win on a technicality?” 

Timing, Bartimaeus knows, is everything. Whether it be the execution of a joke, the distribution of a poison, or the making of a purchase on the housing market, a person’s success— or lack thereof— almost always comes down to timing. That he waits a beat, then, is a tactical decision as much as it is a dramatic one; it gives Nathaniel a chance to imagine himself tripping at the finish line and cracking his own head open. 

Once he is convinced that this tragedy has been sufficiently visualized, the assassin goes in for the final blow. Again, figuratively speaking. 

“Don’t get me wrong, Natty-boy. _I_ wouldn’t mind if you kicked it. At least I’d get paid. But I thought it would matter to _you._”

Another pause. Bartimaeus counts its beats on the teeth of his slowly spreading smile. There is victory in its length; Nathaniel only ever looks so cross when he knows he’s lost an argument. 

“…I suppose,” the politician grits, in the same, pained tones he might use if forced to admit that Bartimaeus had been right all along about the NHS, “it wouldn’t hurt. To turn in early. Just this once. _Provided,_” he snaps, pointing a threatening finger, “it will shut you up.” 

With the indelible innocence of a man who spent his life _not_ being a bank robber, Bartimaeus lifts his hands.

“Oh, you shan’t hear a peep from me,” he promises. “The only time I _don’t_ talk is when I’m asleep.”

-

“_Bartimaeus!_ What the hell are you—? Now you’re just being ridiculous!”

“Am not,” Bartimaeus argues pithily, paying Nathaniel’s flails and sputters no heed as he hops atop the king bed. It certainly lives up to its noble designation: the antique four-poster of handcrafted mahogany gleams in the moonlight, all polished spires and age-smoothed edges. By design it bears no canopy or curtain, for such additions would have made it more difficult to show off its gilt-tasseled pillows and 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. The luxuriously plush eiderdown has already been rolled back, its velveteen, cobalt blue cover prettily contrasted by silvery linens. Truly, an impressive piece of furniture, designed with royalty in mind. 

But given the lack of nearby monarchs, a weedy politician and an assassin with personal space issues will have to do.

“Bartimaeus!” said politician fumes, cheeks burning so brightly that Bartimaeus half-wishes he’d brought a cup of water with him to bed. Just in case something caught and needed to be doused. “How could you _possibly_ justify this sort of— _put your shirt back on!_— this sort of _fraternizing?_”

A curly head pokes back through the neck hole of a worn t-shirt, black eyes mid-roll. “‘_Fraternizing?_’ Christ, Nat. Are your Victorian sensibilities further offended by my ankle socks?”

“_You’re_ the one crawling into someone else’s bed and _stripping!_” Nathaniel snarls. Tries to snarl. _Definitely doesn’t squeak_, he reassures himself. “I fail to understand why you can’t just stay in your usual guestroom!” 

“Because,” Bartimaeus explains, in the bored tones of someone who is right, and knows he is right, and knows that the other person knows he is right, so all of this is quite annoying, right? Right. “Without someone here to physically _pin you down_, you’d bloody sneak off and go straight back to work.”

The tic of Nathaniel’s frown gives him away. Guilt distracts for a crucial instant. Only after does something register. 

“—wait,” Nathaniel blinks. “Without someone here to _what_— ack!” 

A pillow arcs through the air, the flash of its embellishments redolent of shooting stars. A sumptuous waterfall of blanket cascades to the floor. Nathaniel, lacking even a modicum of his bedspreads’ grace, thrashes like a pillbug, half-curled and trapped on his side. He cannot right himself, he cannot move; two strong arms are cross-locked around his torso, and his bony legs hopelessly tangled with Bartimaeus’ more powerful ones. In less time than it took to microwave a Pop-Tart, Bartimaeus had effectually trapped Nathaniel atop his own mattress. 

But that is not even the worst part. Somehow, the _worst_ part is that Bartimaeus isn’t even winded in the wake of their tussle. He could at least _pretend_ that restraining Nathaniel took some effort, but no: Bartimaeus is breathing directly into Nathaniel’s ear, and each one of those breaths is deep and steady.

And amused. 

_Damn him._

“Right, so. Basically,” the assassin murmurs, chin digging into the soft of Nathaniel’s nape, “there is no escape. Resistance is futile. All your bases are belonging to us and such like. Refuse to KO of your own volition, Natty, and I’ll just have to crush you between my thighs like a Bond villain.” 

There is nothing particularly heroic, never mind Bond-like, in Nathaniel’s answering whines. “This is harassment, you bastard…” 

“Only if you choose to look at it that way,” Bartimaeus rejoins. The glint of his winning smile over Nathaniel’s shoulder serves to remind Nathaniel that he has always been a sore loser. Even still, that soreness doesn’t usually manifest itself so physical. “You might also think of it as a very intense hug. Or night-night cuddles. Snug-a-bug!” 

The weight of the assassin intensifies: a long, warm, and malleable pressure that runs from the top of Nathaniel’s spine to its bottom. He shivers. Bartimaeus, close as he is, shivers with him. 

“Now then,” the latter decrees, in imperious tones that are a wee bit subverted by his spider-monkey hold on Nathaniel, “in the words of famed thespian Samuel L Jackson, _go the fuck to sleep._”

-

He tries.

In his defense, Nathaniel sincerely does try. He closes his eyes, forces the tension from his limbs, and makes a genuine effort to focus on something— anything— other than his own racing thoughts. But the metronome tick of the wall clock does the opposite of lull him, and counting sheep had never even worked when he was a boy. He’d had a modicum of success when he had tuned into the steady, muted thrum of Bartimaeus’ heartbeat, but that spell broke the instant he remembered what, exactly, he was listening to.

Or _who_ exactly, as it were. 

Helpless, hopeless, Nathaniel stares into the interminable gloom, unable to so much as sigh without the threat of Bartimaeus reaffixing his hold. 

On the subject—and at the risk of ruining what little propriety remains between them—, that hold isn’t exactly helping his situation, either. 

“Bartimaeus,” Nathaniel rasps, voice rough enough to tear a hole clean through the gauzy night, “let me go.” 

He wriggles an emphatic arm. Pavlov himself would be impressed by the speed with which Bartimaeus squeezes that limb back into submission. 

“_Bartimaeus_…!” Nathaniel hisses again, now with a full-bodied wiggle. “Come on. I’m just… too _awake_. Let me work.” 

In a compelling display of the articulateness for which he is renown, Bartimaeus groans into the skin at the base of Nathaniel’s throat, precisely where Nathaniel is most ticklish. An involuntary spasm begets a greedier hold which brings their bodies closer _still_, and the whole ouroboros cycle of suffering begins anew. Nathaniel wishes he were asleep just so he could pin this entire rotten evening on a nightmare, but no joy there; he is, as he had claimed, _too awake._ What else could he be, with Bartimaeus meticulously setting each of his nerves on fire? 

“Mmmnngh,” the assassin grunts, his breath hot. Lips chapped. Nathaniel swears he can feel every individual eyelash that Bartimaeus flutters against his nape, and he imagines them as he knows they are: feathery as wings and black as sin. 

None of this helps with his predicament. If anything, it makes things much, much harde— 

_Worse! Worseworseworse_worse, Nathaniel mentally, desperately corrects, cringing when a drowsy, kitten-soft Bartimaeus drags his cheek up and over his captive’s shoulder. As a profile in his periphery, Nathaniel watches the assassin squint at the clock. 

“What’ssit…?” Bartimaeus mumbles, exhibiting exactly zero percent of the physical and mental swiftness one would associate with a person of his profession. “_Nnn_, an’ you worried about _me_ being chatty… What’s the topic de jour at 2:48 am, Nat?” he quips, his sarcasm’s usual edge worn to silky smoothness by slumber. The words practically susurrate in Nathaniel’s ear. It’s indecent. _Indecent._ The whole of this charade is indecent! The warmth and the closeness and the _shifting_ and _where the hell does Bartimaeus think he is putting his_—! 

“Aww,” Bartimaeus coos, the husky rasp of his chuckle doing unmentionable things to an oft-forgotten place below Nathaniel’s stomach, “does someone enjoy being the little spoon? That’s so sweet.” 

“B—_Bartimaeus!_ You’ll make it worse, damn you!” Nathaniel squawks, thrashing with renewed effort against— _away from!_— the hand that had slipped down his front. “Look, this is impossible! I can’t do it!” 

“Do _what?_ Relax?” Bartimaeus begins to laugh, all low and stupidly, sleepily velveteen. But then he pauses, palm still resting over the tent of Nathaniel’s pajama bottoms, and considers. “…actually, having met you, I can believe that.” 

“You know how much coffee I had today— you gave it to me!” Nathaniel hisses, glaring daggers into the far wall. While a sorry substitute for piercing any of the assassin’s tentacle-limbs, it is the only option currently available to him; he takes it, and a breath, and says in the most authoritarian voice that has ever been mustered by a man who’d been choo-choo-trained a forkful of veggies not five hours earlier, “I still need to work all that caffeine out of my system. So get off. Let me do— do… _What are you doing?_” 

The politician shrills a noise of protest, hips curling back from a creeping, intrusive presence. That this maneuver succeeds only in rubbing his rear against Bartimaeus’ crotch does not escape Nathaniel’s notice; he freezes, a deer caught in headlights comprised of boxer-briefs and callused palms. 

Bartimaeus yawns. “Helping you do it, obviously.” 

“Helping me do _what?!_”

“Relax,” he explains, in the calm and level manner of a man who had _not_ just slipped his fingers beneath the hem of his co-worker’s pants. “And burn off that extra energy.” 

“I hardly think—!” 

“That’s good. Keep that up,” Bartimaeus interrupts, equal parts lazy and bolstering. “The ‘hardly thinking’ thing, I should clarify. The _other_ thing probably doesn’t need encouragement, mm?” In emphasis, he gently curls his hand, thumb moving in circles over the tip of the point he is making. So to speak. “Better yet,” the assassin continues, “don’t think at all. _I’m_ certainly not thinking about this.”

“T-that much is _quite_ clear—!” 

“_Psh_, don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’ll just trap my wrist down there.” Perhaps to remind those involved of its present location, the aforementioned wrist moves: up then down, once and again, in languid, efficient motions. 

“Oh—”

Bartimaeus is a creature of keen observation, particularly when it benefits him to be so. What he observes now— and has observed before, in a variety of settings— is how his detached self-possession and control serves as a graceful counterpoint to Nathaniel’s involuntary spasms, his bulged eyes and half-choked, vulgar noises. Poor confused dear. So pathetic. It’s almost enough to pull at the ol’ heartstrings. 

Over an exceptionally lewd grunt, the equable assassin remarks, “Look. Nat. I know you politicians are prone to the espousal of puritan nonsense, but you don’t need to make a big deal about this. Sex doesn’t ‘mean’ anything. And getting off is a natural way to calm the body down and release its pent-up stress.” 

“Y-yes,” Nathaniel wheezes, vitriol oozing from him like— well. Never mind. “But I _said_ that I want you to get off, not get _me_ off!” 

“Really?” Although he seems unconvinced, Bartimaeus ceases the oscillations of his fist. 

That Nathaniel reacts to this loss by crying out, then trying to buck back into Bartimaeus’ grip, sends what he’s heard the kids call ‘mixed messages.’ 

“_Really?_” Bartimaeus prompts a second time, raising an eyebrow that his companion cannot see. Bartimaeus can see it, though— or very nearly— reflected off the sheen of sweat that has dewed upon Nathaniel’s temple, that has beaded down his neck. “Because if you’re _really_ not interested in a helping hand, we can end this right here, right now. I’ll stop. Apologize, even. Just say the word, Nat. Tell me no.” 

Cocooned in the assassin’s wiry embrace, Nathaniel grimaces. He pants. He turns his head and half burrows it in the nearest overstuffed pillow, trying in vain to hide the mottled scarlet blush that is doing hideous things to his cheeks.

He says nothing. 

Bartimaeus’ grin gains incisors, white and predatory. “Is that a ‘yes,’ then?” 

Nathaniel glowers harder. In every possible way one might turn that phrase. 

“Oh, dear… Silence isn’t consent, Natty.” Nudging at Nathaniel’s blistering ear with his nose, Bartimaeus sniggers, trills. Gets an awkward kick in the shins for his troubles. Fortunately, Nathaniel’s aim is trash, so he mostly kicks himself. “Ah ah ah. Use your words, Nat…” 

Forty-nine seconds pass. The clock screams them. Bartimaeus listens. Hears. 

Smiles, its curve a waxing moon that blinds in the dark. 

“This would all go smoother with a little oil,” he muses loudly to himself, making an unnecessary production of adjusting his arm. An idea occurs; rather than snap his fingers, Bartimaeus celebrates his stroke of genius with a stroke of a more pleasurable sort. “I know, we’ll use some from your hair.” 

When Bartimaeus snickers at his own awful joke, Nathaniel can feel his mirth vibrate through the flesh and tissue of his own throat, honeyed and hot and too intimate by half; the sensation shakes something wordless and wanting from Nathaniel’s open lips, something that he immediately tries to smother with that pillow from before. There is, in fact, such zeal in the way he hides his face, one might think that he is ready to attempt autoerotic asphyxiation. 

Or that he is part ostrich. 

Or both. 

_There’s a pun here about birds_, Bartimaeus thinks, in that disconnected way one does when doing something mindless. Like a highly repetitive motion, for example. _Birds, but not ostriches. Ducks and autocorrect. Hmm. Might be too much of a stretch._ Nevertheless, he makes a note to return to the idea later. 

This note is immediately and irreversibly erased from his mental database by the sound of his name escaping grit teeth, the syllables rendered into teasing gossamer strips. 

“_Bar—ti… mae… us…_” 

Bartimaeus can practical feel his pupils distend. 

_Oh._

Everything goes rather quickly, after that. Nathaniel, beholden no longer to his farce of belligerence, applies himself to finding completion in the same way that Bartimaeus has seen him do paperwork: briskly, efficiently, and with a deeper topical knowledge than the assassin would have expected. Were he the curious sort, Bartimaeus might have wondered when and how Nathaniel had learned to move his hips like this— to undulate them such that each forward thrust and backwards grind struck a perfect balance between his own pleasure and Bartimaeus’. 

“Bartim… _Mm_—”

Someone’s foot hooks behind a leg, opening up Nathaniel’s thighs. Widening his hips. The politician’s scrawny behind, they learn in tandem, fits well in the cradle of Bartimaeus’ lap. Disconcertingly well, really. _Delightfully_ well. Bartimaeus thinks he might have spent a bit more time being surprised by this discovery were he not so busy dealing with the surprise of what has crested his hip. 

“_Oh_—!”

A pale hand, greedy and guiding, grips Bartimaeus by the haunch, conducting the rhythm that they’ve found to its inevitable crescendo.

“Barti— _ah_…!” 

“—_gh_—!” 

Because symmetry is one of the few aesthetic choices that they can agree on, another forty-nine seconds pass. Each is as quiet as its predecessor, albeit a tad damper. Definitely stickier. 

Through them all, Bartimaeus and Nathaniel lie motionless, oversensitive and wheezing.

Then, in the fashion of so many men before them, they fall asleep.

-

They don’t talk about it.

Of course they don’t talk about it. Why would they talk about it? Nothing happened. Nothing significant. Nothing… you know. Worth talking about. It was, as things go, _not_ one. Not a thing. Nothing.

Exactly as Bartimaeus had said it would be. 

Moreover— and this, this is the crucial bit— there is so much else that they _should_ be talking about. Their docket is, if anything, overfull. Between the government and the police force, the coffee shop and rival assassins and who-knows-how-many political traitors, there are simply too many other topics that Nathaniel and Bartimaeus need to be discussing. Too many other plans they should to be making. Too many other dialogues they ought to be having. 

Like… 

“What _are_ the four ways to kill someone with bread?” 

Although he cannot see it, Nathaniel knows whenever Bartimaeus smirks; he can hear it in the upward lilt that the expression grants his consonants. Doesn’t hurt that he can feel it, too, when his bed-mate presses close enough for its edge to trace his jawline. 

“Well,” Bartimaeus whispers into Nathaniel’s ear, “there's poisoning it, obviously. Then there’s making your victim choke on it, using it to smother them, and… the secret way.” 

It’s useless to try and crane his neck back. Between his own hair and Bartimaeus’ curls, Nathaniel can’t see anything that really matters. So instead, he nudges Bartimaeus’ shoulder with his own and demands, “What's the secret way?” 

“If I told you,” the assassin simpers, “I'd have to kill you.” The fingers that had idly been circling Nathaniel’s hipbone slow to a still. “...hmm, actually, maybe I should tell you, then. Finally get paid. The secret way is—”

“How do you smother someone with something as airy as a croissant? Wouldn’t it just… flake apart?” Nathaniel presses, curling into Bartimaeus’ embrace for the sole purpose of gaining room enough to twist around. Once supine on the bed, he glares accusingly over at Bartimaeus, who has already adjusted his arms to maintain his death grip on the politician. Neither so much as blink at the leg he throws over Nathaniel’s waist, securing him to the mattress like an increasingly exasperated seatbelt. “And bagels have the equivalent of air holes in them. So how does _that_ work?” 

“It's all about choosing the right— listen kid, who's the professional here, me or you?” 

Nathaniel arcs a brow at Bartimaeus’ petulant moue, star-blue eyes glittering in the dim. “Oh dear, it’s a bad sign if you have to ask. Is Alzheimer’s beginning to set in, _old man?_” 

“‘_Old_—?!’” A histrionic spray of spittle accompanies Bartimaeus’ splutters, the majority of which splatters uncomfortably across Nathaniel’s cheek. Nose scrunched, Nathaniel wastes no time in shifting closer, scrubbing his face clean on the front of Bartimaeus’ faded t-shirt. “Oh no. Nope. You must have a case of the 2 AM crazies.” 

“It’s 11.” 

“It’s early onset,” Bartimaeus retorts with all the gravitas of a soap opera doctor. Or that doctor’s evil twin post his unnatural resurrection. 

Nathaniel’s responding leer is as silken as any daytime femme fatale’s. “Like your dementia, you mean?”

“My—?!” Flabbergasted by the sheer audacity, Bartimaeus stares at Nathaniel as if he were truly seeing him for the first time. Which is a touch ironic, given the darkness of the bedroom. “Right,” he then says, decisive, “if you don’t go to sleep right _now_, I’m going to serve you nothing but decaf for the rest of the week.” 

“If you remember.” 

“_The rest of the month._” 

Nathaniel snorts, almost as if he isn’t taking Bartimaeus’ completely legitimate threat seriously. “Unfortunately,” he drawls, “decaf _then_ doesn’t help me _now_. You saw what I drank this morning. You _served_ what I drank this morning. I’ve simply too much energy to feel remotely tired.” 

Bartimaeus considers this argument. He considers, too, how Nathaniel is averting his eyes; the lip the kid’s caught between his teeth like a lie; the way the heart protected under his palm has begun to beat harder, and noticeably faster.

He considers a lot of things, all at once. 

“Whelp,” he then shrugs, hand slipping lower as Nathaniel’s shy fingers hook beneath the hem of the assassin’s own sweatpants, “I suppose there’s no helping it.”

-

Upon pain of death— untimely, unnatural, or otherwise— Nathaniel will never, ever, _ever_ admit that he misses Bartimaeus’ voice. He will take to his grave the secret that its absence ruins what otherwise would have been a very pleasant encounter.

And not even God Himself can know that if Nathaniel were really, _really_ honest with himself— something he tries his best _not_ to be, at least where certain assassins are concerned— that he’d be forced to confess that of all the ‘assistance’ given to him thus far, he has enjoyed this experience the least, because it is simply too uncanny to be in the same room as Bartimaeus and not have to deal with his sharp tongue. 

Even if he is, in a very literal sense, dealing with Bartimaeus’ sharp tongue. 

“Ba— _ah_…!” 

A full-bodied shudder dislodges the assassin, who looks up from between Nathaniel’s knees with the self-satisfaction of the cat who’s gotten the cream. As a vivaciously pink Nathaniel struggles to remember how to make words work, Bartimaeus licks a bit of said cream from his chin. From his mouth’s corner. From Nathaniel’s thumb, which is presently being dragged over his lips. 

It’s kind of nice, actually. Reverent, almost? But while Bartimaeus is hedonistic enough to indulge in Nathaniel’s absent petting, he is too mordant to do so without judgement. 

“Oh dear. Did I accidentally suck your brain out, Natty?” he taunts, luxuriating in the dual delights of embarrassing Nathaniel via his words, and with the rawness of his voice. “Did I break something important in that head of yours?” 

Possibly. Struck a bit dumber than usual, Nathaniel remains fixated on the assassin’s lips. For his own amusement, Bartimaeus pulls Nathaniel’s sweeping thumb between his teeth and watches the politician’s blue-black eyes expand like a bruise.

“I bet you’re thinking of kissing me, aren’t you? Careful, kid. I might get the wrong idea about what’s going on between us.” Innocently as you please, Bartimaeus plants his elbows on Nathaniel’s thighs, his chin atop his fists, and gives his lashes a coy bat. Adding a pucker to the display sees Nathaniel turn purple. 

“I would _never_,” he chokes, far too convincingly to be fully convincing. His hair, sweat-matted, sticks up in cowlicks when he runs shaking fingers through it. “Don’t be disgusting, Bartimaeus.” 

“Don’t trust where my mouth’s been?” 

“On the contrary,” Nathaniel drones, “the issue is knowing _exactly_ where it’s been.” 

“Hey, now.” Cocking his head, Bartimaeus dons an expression of hurt. “There’s no need for that,” he admonishes, suddenly quite serious. “Don’t insult yourself, Nat. That’s _my_ job.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

With a laborious, deeply-inconvenienced sigh, Nathaniel proceeds to grab at the scruff of Bartimaeus’ neck, yanking the startled assassin first up, then over, then finally down. Given that he puts forth little resistance, Bartimaeus soon finds himself manhandled into Nathaniel’s previous seat at the edge of the bed. Once satisfied with Bartimaeus’ new position, Nathaniel slides primly to his knees, taking the assassin’s former spot atop a throw pillow. 

It really is overstuffed, that pillow; Nathaniel wobbles once in the process of finding his balance, destabilized by uneven padding. It doesn’t help, either, that his liquidized bones have not quite re-solidified. On instinct, Bartimaeus reaches out to keep him from tipping, and winds up pulling a fistful of Nathaniel’s hair. 

“—!”

Neither party is certain what to do with Nathaniel’s involuntary keen, nor the visible way that Bartimaeus reacts to it. For a full minute, they stare at each other, flushed and guarded and contemplative. The clock thrums, its pseudo-heartbeats deafening. 

Ultimately, resentfully, Nathaniel grabs Bartimaeus’ left hand and forces it to join his right. 

“Shut up,” he grouses again, in lieu of any explanation for his behavior. Which is fair. Though, as orders go, it _is_ a bit superfluous; for perhaps the first time in his life, Bartimaeus has made no quips, no jokes, no asides. He says nothing at all. Instead, fingers knotting, the assassin watches his would-be target with eyes that compel like collapsars. 

Caught in their gravity, Nathaniel leans closer, grumbling, “You’ll not be able to sleep like this, and _I_ shan’t be able to sleep if you’re up whining about it.”

-

Of the two of them, Bartimaeus isn’t actually the whiner.

“Like _that_… no, dammit, s-stop teasing, you _know_ how I— _nnn_, do it like— _oh!_ Oh, _yes_, yes _there_, again, _again_,” Nathaniel bleats, smearing the wet of his brow across Bartimaeus’ bare shoulder. Back and forth his temple slides, up and down and up again, as if in homage to the movement of their slotted hips and tangled hands. He pants, and fondles, and gripes, “_Ngh_, faster…!” 

Bartimaeus— with copy-written articulacy— replies with a twist of his wrist. It is an argument he underscores by deliberately slowing down, because Nathaniel’s fingers are trying to speed things up, and the assassin is nothing if not contradictory. And a jerk. 

He giggles when Nathaniel wails. 

“_Bartimaeus!_” The personification of human suffering, Nathaniel burrows his face in Bartimaeus’ nape and curses. There is venom enough in his reedy, broken voice to frighten any God-fearing man, but fortunately, Bartimaeus is an atheist; he feels nothing but a dizzying spike in his desire to hear the politician’s anguish, the effervescent heat that has steadily been turning his belly to blisters having sparked into an inferno. 

“You w-worthless… _ha_— oh, Ba— _ah_, yes, touch me there, _there— no_…—!” 

Nathaniel can complain all he likes. Their bodies give them away, and his is twitching so prettily against Bartimaeus’.

“Just a littl— no, _no_, a little _mo_— dammit…!” 

The scent of exorbitantly expensive lavender oil plumes between the pair, friction-warmed and slick and glistening where it pools and spills down inner thighs, inner wrists. 

“Bar… Bartimae… us,” Nathaniel grunts, teary lashes quivering against Bartimaeus’ pulse, “you’re— _nnn_— you’re _killing_ me…!”

“Well, I should hope.” Nudging a stray bang behind Nathaniel’s ear, Bartimaeus hoods his hazy gaze and beams, “What sort of assassin would I be if I couldn't dole out a little death?”

-

At ten o’clock precisely, Nathaniel sets down his fountain pen.

“It’s bedtime,” he announces to those present in the study. So, to Bartimaeus and Kitty. 

They handle this news in two very distinctive ways. 

Bartimaeus, whose boundless energy has been primarily directed towards checking and double-checking the clock over the past hour, hurdles out of the room, shouting something about being “super-_duper_ tired, just _wow_, can hardly keep upright” before dashing up the stairs and bounding in his army-issue boots in the direction of the master bedroom. 

Kitty, who had noticed Nathaniel discreetly ogling his own watch every five minutes since half-past six, stares at her co-conspirator as if he had started speaking in a stranger’s voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s bedtime,” Nathaniel repeats, tapping notes and papers and other work-related paraphernalia into well-ordered piles. Three crisp manila folders are tucked into his briefcase. Four more are locked in a secret desk drawer. “As such, I must bid you a fond farewell. Until tomorrow, etcetera.” 

For as much as this clarifies the situation, Nathaniel may as well have been speaking in Latin. Or ancient Greek.

“What the hell? You’re twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. And an insomniac, if ever I’ve met one,” Kitty reminds, even as she allows herself to be bustled from her chair. “Since when do you keep a bedtime?” 

Nathaniel heaves a put-upon sigh. Also, Kitty. Towards the foyer. “Since Bartimaeus began complaining that I didn’t.”

If the look that Kitty fixes Nathaniel with is familiar, it’s because he has often seen it on the faces of her technological victims. It is an expression of abject confusion, liberally peppered with horror’s first inklings. “…of the _myriad_ of things that Bartimaeus has bitched about,” she says slowly, “why the fuck—?” 

They’re at the front door, now. As urbanely as possible, Nathaniel shoves her out of it. “Mind how you go, Kitty.”

“I mean, for a start, your _hair_ would have been easier to—”

“_Good night, Kathleen._”

-

These are, strictly speaking, _not_ the most impressive interrogation techniques that Bartimaeus has ever been forced to endure. Even looking beyond questionable hygienics and debatable innovative, it’s a pretty poor setup; had he really wanted to, say, escape from his captor’s hold, Bartimaeus could break his weak grip— and weaker arms— easier than winking. He could wrestle his way out from underneath the kid in no time flat. He could—

“_Oh_,” Bartimaeus squeaks, toes curling in ridiculously extravagant sheets as Nathaniel settles, inch by torturous inch, in Bartimaeus’ naked lap. A pale back chafes deliciously against dark, raised knees; a trembling fist forces scarred wrists against the wall. The nails of Nathaniel’s other hand raise moon-shaped welts along the midnight expanse of Bartimaeus’ collar, followed by shooting stars with long, red tails. 

All the while, his eyes glimmer as galaxies do: so close and yet so far above the awe-struck Bartimaeus. 

“Now, then. I’ll ask again,” Nathaniel coos, the lazy indulgence in his voice at odds with the tension and tightness of _the rest of him_. Someone chokes on an eager gurgle; it takes Bartimaeus three full heartbeats to realize that someone is him. “Did you, or did you not, put an extra shot of espresso in my morning coffee, Bartimaeus?” 

Bartimaeus sucks down an unsteady breath. 

“N-no.” Yes. 

“No?” He totally did. 

“_No._” Yesyes_yes_. 

See? He can handle this. Easy-peasy lemon-_sq_— 

“_Jesus Chri_—!” Bartimaeus throws his head back, heels scrabbling-chest heaving-jaw clenching as he tries to hold himself together. Which he can do. _Will_ do. Hell, compared to what he’s been trained for, the politician’s little play at power is downright pitiful. He— he is Bartimaeus of Uruk, for God’s sake! And Rekhyt of Alexandria, Necho of Jerusalem, Sakhr al-Jinni of Al-Arish, N'gorso the Mighty, Wakonda of the Algonquin, and the Serpent of Silver Plumes, depending on who’s asking. He is made of far stronger stuff than this, and so is not—repeat, is _not_— about to fall apart in Nathaniel’s—

In Nathaniel— 

“You are an atrocious liar,” Nathaniel whispers, and thrusts himself down with such unequivocal vigor that Bartimaeus is left winded, practically sobbing. 

“Oh my G— Na… fuck, _fuck_, do that agai—!” 

“Not until you explain yourself,” Nathaniel leers, because he is a terrible person. “Are you not the one who berated me for drinking too _much_ coffee? Who called me a vampire _to my face_ because he never saw me sleep? And now here you are, secretly dosing me with excessive caffeine…” 

“_Ngh_— Nath— _nnn_, oh, _oh_, I w-won’t—!” 

“You will,” Nathaniel snorts, because in addition to being a terrible, terrible person, he is also apparently psychic. Bartimaeus is most definitely going to do it again. Tomorrow, probably. Would do it sooner, were that logistically possible. Never-ever-ever letting Nathaniel sleep again sounds like the best plan in the world right now, especially when he cants forward, looming, purring— “So in punishment…” 

Bartimaeus’ skin, already smoldering, is struck by the flint of Nathaniel’s terrible, terrible, _terrible_ mouth, whereupon it bursts into a perfect, blistering ring of fire. 

_He bit me he_ bit _me holy crap_— 

“_Na_—! Ah—!”

“That’s for all the Dracula comments,” Nathaniel licks into Bartimaeus’ delectably abused neck. He underscores the quip with a practiced circular motion, feeling as he does the echo of Bartimaeus’ pulse as it throbs madly beneath his lips, inside his body. “You deserve worse. And more of it.”

_That’s a threat_, the assassin’s mind helpfully translates. And Bartimaeus thrills at it, nodding, struggling just enough to merit further punishment. He wants that, yes. He wants worse. He wants more. He wants to find a dent in the plaster come morning, one in which he recognizes the shape of his knuckles. He wants his body bruised so badly he cannot move without remembering this tryst. He wants to burn, burn, _burn_, to shrivel away in this unbearable heat, until there is no more politics left between them, nor debts, nor extortions, nor yearnings, nor flesh, nor bones. Just one, singular writhing mass of pleasure-pain, because yes. They deserve it. 

They both deserve it. And more. More sounds good. More sounds so—

“_Oh_,” Bartimaeus gasps, writhing, frantic, eyes and hips rolling, rolling, lights flashing, colors swirling, “_yes_, I— Ah… _Na_…”

“_Bartimaeus_,” Nathaniel moans. The fingers of his hold are slipping, slipping. Slipping through Bartimaeus’ own. “Bartimaeus, _please_…” 

Something hidden and deep inside the assassin’s heart _cracks_. And, with a whimper, he falls utterly apart: 

“_Nathaniel_—!”

-

In the aftermath of the afterglow, with Nathaniel soundly asleep and drooling atop his chest, Bartimaeus lies awake, staring blankly at the ceiling as he ponders a series of patentably eloquent thoughts.

Transliterated, they would read something like: 

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit—_

-

**Bartimaeus**  
Queezle.  
7:29

**Bartimaeus**  
Queezle.  
7:30

**Bartimaeus**  
It’s terrible.  
7:31

**Queezle**  
What is?  
7:34

**Bartimaeus**  
I’m begging you, Queezle, please.  
7:35

**Bartimaeus**  
I need your help.  
7:35

**Queezle**  
Bartimaeus, what’s wrong?  
7:36

**Bartimaeus**  
Caught...  
7:37

**Queezle**  
What?!  
7:37

**Queezle**  
Who caught you?  
7:37

**Queezle**  
Give me a second, I’ll  
7:37

**Bartimaeus**  
No  
7:38

**Bartimaeus**  
No, it’s so much worse than that  
7:38

**Queezle**  
What is going on, Bartimaeus?!  
7:38

**Bartimaeus**  
I caught…  
7:40

**Queezle**  
Yes???  
7:40

**Bartimaeus**  
I caught what you have  
7:43

**Queezle**  
…I beg your unbelievable pardon?  
7:44

**Queezle**  
What the hell do you presume “I have?”  
7:44

**Bartimaeus**  
FEELINGS  
7:45

**Queezle**  
what  
7:45

**Bartimaeus**  
I caught FEELINGS FOR A HORRIBLE HUMAN BEING  
7:46

**Queezle**  
Is this a bit?  
7:47

**Bartimaeus**  
It’s gross, is what it is  
7:47

**Queezle**  
Right.  
7:48

**Queezle**  
Let me guess.  
7:48

**Queezle**  
The one we told you had a hit on him you now want to…  
hit on.  
7:49

**Bartimaeus**  
I WANT to puke.  
7:49

**Bartimaeus**  
I also want to play an aggressive form of rock/paper/scissors with him  
where we both choose rock and one rock tries to consume the  
other to assert its dominance.  
7:50

**Queezle**  
You mean “hold hands.”  
7:51

**Bartimaeus**  
And I want to cover his hideous mouth with mine so that nothing idiotic  
can come out of it except maybe his tongue which I will of course have to  
take into my own mouth to prevent it from doing anything stupid.  
7:52

**Queezle**  
Why are you like this  
7:52

**Bartimaeus**  
Look, you made a terrible life choice when  
you succumbed to FEELINGS for Faquarl.  
7:53

**Bartimaeus**  
What do I do to spare myself your fate?!  
7:53

**Queezle**  
Bartimaeus.  
7:54

**Queezle**  
I will block you.  
7:54

-

At some point— and Bartimaeus, despite his excellent memory and general mastery of chronology, is uncertain when, exactly, this line had been crossed— he and Nathaniel went from “sleeping together: literal” to “sleeping together: figurative.” He is not sure what happened, exactly.

Well, no, that’s a lie. Bartimaeus knows _exactly_ “what happened.” He had been there. He remembers it. He remembers all of it. Sometimes (read: frequently, daily, three minutes ago) he even has daydreams about it— vivid, nigh-visceral daydreams— that land him in some very awkward situations, considering the relative inefficiency of aprons as methods of... disguise. 

This shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him. His apron hadn’t accomplished much as an initial disguise, either. Nathaniel had known who he was from the very start. Though in fairness, that was Bartimaeus’ own damn fault; he had revealed too much, had taken his knowledge too far. 

_Is this my own damn fault, too?_ Bartimaeus broods, positioning himself behind the countertop of Pinn’s. The cold of the faux-granite is helping him deal with _one_ of his problems, at least. _Did I take things too far again?_

Irritated, the assassin moves to bury his head in his hands, but immediately regrets it; the dark behind his palms is too evocative, never mind the curl of his fingers. 

_The issue_, he thinks in parody of Nathaniel’s annoying, breathy, gorgeously needy voice, _is knowing_ exactly _where they’ve been._

Then, because timing is everything, Bartimaeus’ brain decides to offer up another of his recent thoughts. It reoccurs to him with the same initial intensity, but has since been flavored further by a double shot of innuendo and a sugar-sprinkle of irony: 

_I am so fucked._

\---


	2. love is warmest of all (extra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bartimaeus finally finds the pun that had been on the tip of his tongue. As it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer:_ Nah-uh.
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ I… have no excuses. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ HEY GUYS GUESS WHAT I’VE READ CHAPTER TWO AT THIS POINT. But this idea occurred to me literally the instant _after_ I posted the last bit of “death is,” so… Yup. It builds on that. _And_ on “love is.” Which makes this a mess. I am also a mess. We move on. 
> 
> Written, edited, and posted all in one night. I apologize. Contains a loving shout-out to the works of jessthereckless.

\---

There’s a pun here about birds, _Bartimaeus thinks, in that disconnected way one does when doing something mindless. Like a highly repetitive motion, for example._ Birds, but not ostriches. Ducks and autocorrect. Hmm. Might be too much of a stretch. _Nevertheless, he makes a note to return to the idea later._

\--

love is warmest of all

(extra)

\--

“_Cock!_”

There are, at present, two middle-aged couples, six primary school students, four gum-cracking teenagers, and one plump, grandmotherly old lady in an electric scooter milling about aisle eight of the local Tesco. This is hardly unusual; it is Saturday morning, after all— a popular time to finish one’s chores. Yes, it’s looking to be a busy day. Beautiful, too, given the time of year. Peaceful. Outside, the flowers are growing, the sun is shining, and the government is (relatively) stable.

Inside, about three-quarters of the way down aisle eight, those two middle-aged couples, six primary school students, four gum-cracking teenagers, and one plump, grandmotherly old lady have gone utterly silent. So too has a store hand. Also, incidentally, her manager. _And_ a number of nosy shoppers in the adjacent aisles of seven and nine, their shoes clattering to the noiseist stops possible in order to better demonstrate their shock and offence. 

A keen ear might pick up the grind of tin cans being moved. An observant eye might meet a curious one peeking through rearranged displays. Pearls are clutched; jaws are dropped.

All stare in horror at the man who had shouted. 

“Cock,” Bartimaeus declares a second time, more eloquently than the first. Less like an excited toddler who has just learned a new curse word, and more like a wizened philosopher deeply satisfied by the wisdom he has attained. 

Without ceremony, Nathaniel shoves the nearest bag of dog food into his trolley and leaves without a backwards glance, eyes fixed on the advert-filled horizon. But when he tries to sneak away, his trolley’s front-end wheel gives a deafening squeak, because of course it bloody does. 

“I _don’t_ know you,” he hisses as he passes Bartimaeus. (_Squeak-squeak._) Turns the corner. (_Squeak-squeak._) Dashes. (_Squeaksqueaksqueak—_)

Although he moves with impressive speed for someone who basically wears leather clown shoes, it takes Bartimaeus naught but a second to catch up. Score one for tennis shoes. 

“You can’t hide from me, lover boy,” he giddily reminds, skipping up beside the mortified Nathaniel. It’s a special sort of happiness, Bartimaeus muses: the knowledge that he has thoroughly embarrassed his S.O. “Should we get separated, I’d just camp out in the hygiene section. We both know you can’t ignore the siren song of new hair products for long.”

“Shut up. _This_ is why I never want to be seen in public with you,” Nathaniel retaliates in a grumble, using his elbows to guide their trolley as he scrubs at his face. His exasperation is almost palpable. For fun, Bartimaeus wonders what must yet be done to make it fully tangible. “Christ on a bike. The press is going to think you’ve got Tourette syndrome…” 

“_Psh._ Please. What I’ve _got_ is ten times better than _that_.” There is something particularly criminal about the smile that Bartimaeus flashes to underscore this declaration. Which is rather ironic, given that— for the first time in years, and thanks entirely to Kitty— he is not _actually_ a criminal. Even if he is doing everything in his power to assault Nathaniel’s public standing and sense of moral decency. “Ready for this, Nat? _I’ve_ got… a _pun._”

Nathaniel’s face betrays nothing. Mostly because it is still in his hands. “A pun.” 

“The _best_ pun. About a _bird._”

“Have you been hanging out with the Americans again?”

“Different kind of bird.” 

“And it is needed because…?” 

“Puns are the pinnacle of good humor!” 

“Says the man with the basest of tastes,” the politician deadpans, pausing long enough in his half-hearted escape attempt to grab a bottle of Tate and Lyle Golden Syrup from a nearby shelf. Bartimaeus affects a puppy-pout that would impress even Ptolemy. 

No doubt the corgi would be equally impressed by the lick Bartimaeus lands on Nathaniel’s cheek. Pale ears turn a vivid pink. 

“Gah— _Bartimaeus!_” 

“I told you, Nat,” the agent smirks, flopping chest-first against his boyfriend’s back. Limp arms looped about Nathaniel’s neck, he nuzzles close and purrs, “It hurts me to hear you insult yourself like that.”

As Nathaniel contemplates every poor life choice that brought him to this moment, Bartimaeus nudges an extra bottle of Golden Syrup into their cart. More convenient to have two, he figures; this way, it won’t matter if they forget one in the bedroom. 

“Let’s move on, then,” he urges, shoving sweetly at his stationary beau. “Still loads to buy.” 

“True,” Nathaniel agrees in long-suffering monotone. The cart shrills as their combined weight pushes against it; their next few steps would make the most ungainly team in a three-legged-race look graceful. “I don’t think we shall get far with you draped all over me, though.” 

“Hmm. That does seem to be what the evidence suggests,” Bartimaeus acknowledges, molding himself all the more purposefully around Nathaniel’s bony angles. “But there’s no helping it, I’m afraid.”

“No?”

“Nope. This is for safety.” 

“Ah. For safety.” 

“Yup. I’m protecting you from assassination.” 

“Indeed. Well. While that’s _greatly_ appreciated,” the politician drawls, “who will protect me from suffocation?” He punctuates the question by spitting out a few of his boyfriend’s more intrusive curls, nose nudging gently at Bartimaeus’ temple. 

In answer, Bartimaeus considers the closest arrangement of foodstuffs. Untangles an arm just long enough to grab a bag of bagels.

“Here,” he says. “A reliable source tells me that these have airholes.” 

Nathaniel’s responding exhalation echoes in Bartimaeus’ ear, sharp and short enough to betray secret amusement. “_You’re_ an airhole,” the politician counters beneath his breath, much to Bartimaeus’ unrestricted delight. 

“A good thing, then, that you’re so fond of those,” he says, smug, and crouches to more comfortably nestle his chin atop Nathaniel’s shoulder. 

A few minutes pass. (_Squeak, squeak._) Fewer steps are taken. (_Squeak._) Progress is progress. 

“Hey.” Apropos of nothing, Bartimaeus nuzzles closer. Waits. Mumbles “hey” again, because timing is important, and aren’t moments like these the most important of all? The ones when _nothing_ is really going on, but they are still together— still _together_— still feeling so much? 

His grip tightens the smallest, most significant fraction. 

“Hey, Nathaniel. You know, I… um. Well. You know…” 

Nathaniel, after adding a box of bowtie noodles to their trolley, uses that same box-tossing, chair-smashing, document-signing hand to find Bartimaeus’ cheek. Slender fingers spread, slow and soft, as if to mirror the warmth they have ignited inside the blushing agent’s breast. 

“Yes,” Nathaniel tells him, perfectly matter-of-fact. “I know.” 

Progress is progress, Bartimaeus reflects, no matter how slow; they’ll get to where they need to be when they need to be there. 

(_Squeak, squeak._)

The agent presses the shape of his smile into the politician’s palm. 

“Gay,” he coos, achingly fond. Giggles, too, when his boyfriend snorts and smacks him. Blue eyes roll with such force that Bartimaeus swears he can hear them going ‘round. 

“_Bi,_” Nathaniel corrects. “And lucky for you that I am.” 

Doesn’t Bartimaeus know it.

\---


End file.
